


London Gets Further Away

by Immy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Contest, Contest Entry, Terminal Illnesses, don't look at me, i'm really sorry chai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:13:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Immy/pseuds/Immy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finds out he has a niece from NYC named Elizabeth Holmes and she's made a trip to London...<br/>(Contest entry)</p>
            </blockquote>





	London Gets Further Away

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entry for a contest. I put hard work into this, but I would not even be able to post it if my friends Abby and Chai had not edited it for me. Thank you so much, Abby and Chai!  
> (I am currently working on a fic where John meets Sherlock's niece post fall. Do not confuse this with that story. This is something completely different.)

Family, to Sherlock Holmes, had never been anything special. The only members of his family who were ‘close’ to him were his mother or perhaps Mycroft. But family in general had never been important to him. He never cared about which great-aunt was ill, or which uncle had sent him a birthday card. They were just more idiots, but idiots who had fractions of his blood running through their veins.

He never talked at Easter or Christmas, in fear that he would be called out like in his youth. Never trying to impress them and hardly tolerating them. His brother always had a different approach with family. He always turned on his charm and acted as if anything their grandfather said was a breakthrough for humanity in a whole. How he despised him when he did this. He was always the more appreciated brother. Always the one to receive praise instead of scolding. It was strange that he always needed Sherlock’s help.

Sherlock did not think Mycroft ever intended to have children. He was always too interested in his work. If he ever brought a girlfriend home with him during his youth, Sherlock must have deleted any memory of it. But Mycroft’s life, especially personal, was something that Sherlock made the choice of avoiding entirely. So you could easily assume that learning that he had a daughter living in America would at least slightly surprise him.

“Elizabeth," He repeated and let a small chuckle escape his mouth. “I think your love for the queen has gone a bit too far."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes but did not give Sherlock the cold smile he was looking for. Something more serious, then. Not just a quick family reunion.

“I need you to accompany me to New York City," he said as he folded the photo of the girl and her mother. The girl’s mother was pretty enough, but she had thin lips and a turned up nose. The girl was also pretty and quite resembled the Holmes’ mother when she was young. Long dark hair, high cheekbones, her mother’s small nose, Mycroft’s cold blue-grey eyes.

“What for. To meet your offspring? To baby sit? Not likely."

“I’m afraid this will be your only chance."

“My only chance to avoid meeting a child that I know nothing about? What a shame."

“I would like to explain."

“No need," Sherlock retorted sharply. “I don’t need to meet her and I will not. Now, if you could please see yourself out."

“She’s dying, Sherlock!" the older brother snapped at him. He took in a sharp breath and looked Sherlock in the eye. “She is in a children’s hospital in New York and would like to meet you."

Sherlock swallowed hard. Never in his life did he expect such a request. His own brother asking him to meet his dying child.

“Dying," Sherlock said cautiously, “Of what?"

“Encephalitis. She’d been suffering from dizziness and fatigue, but was not taken to a hospital until she had a mild seizure in the middle of the hallway of her private school."

“Did you find it necessary to include that she goes to a private school?" Sherlock huffed. Even while talking about the life-threatening disease that infected his only child, he found ways to show off. It did not matter how well of he and his daughter were.

“Do you find it necessary to interrupt?" Mycroft replied, matching his tone. “Encephalitis inflames the brain, causing seizures and hallucinations."

“How did she come to acquire it?"

“The doctors are trying to find that out. It could be anything from rabies to Lyme disease to HIV/AIDS."

“I assume that the latter is out of the question."

“I assume but I do not know," Mycroft answered with a sigh.

*****

By that afternoon, Sherlock was sitting uncomfortably in first class on an airplane. He took the aisle seat, hoping to get as much room between him and his brother as possible. He texted John, briefly explaining why he would not be home for a few days. Sherlock also asked if he would be interested in accompanying him, but John pointedly denied. He said that it was not his place and that he would be intruding and a lot of gibberish about personal things staying personal until Sherlock turned his phone off.

“She’s doing well today," Mycroft mumbled after checking his phone for the 137th time since getting on the plane. The journey was turning into ‘7 hours of button clicking with Mycroft’. “They started her on a new medication and it is beginning to work."

“Oh, joy," Sherlock responded quietly.

“Sherlock Holmes, could you at least act like you are happy to know that your niece is recovering? Would it really kill you?"

“I will not be sympathetic towards a stranger, Mycroft," he hissed at his older brother. Sherlock could feel the eyes of a few of the people around them blazing into the back of his head, but he continued. “I agreed to joining your pity parade, but I did not say that I would enjoy it."

“There is a person with a blood relationship to us dying five hours away. This is not a joke anymore. This is not you making a sour face because great-aunt Millie pinched your cheek at Christmas dinner. If you don’t care, then you had better act like you do." Sherlock’s lip was twitching and he opened his mouth to speak, but his brother cut him off. “That is an order, Sherlock."

Sherlock threw his head back against the seat and took in a long, deep breath.

The plane landed at a quarter to one in the morning. A black car picked them up and brought them to a posh hotel where Mycroft had booked their rooms. Someone brought up the luggage while they checked in, and they followed it a few minutes later. Sherlock’s room was across the hall from his brother’s and he wasted no time by saying goodnight before entering the room and shutting the door.

The next day he awoke to the sound of a phone ringing. Sherlock rolled over and pushed it off its base while pressing the speaker button.  
“Wake up call, Mister Homes," said a slightly scratchy voice from the beige device.

“It’s Holmes, and I did not order a wake up call," Sherlock grumbled.

“Sorry, sir. But you did, sir, when you checked in last night."

He slammed his hand on the receiver, ending the call, and crawled out of bed. Sherlock took his time showering and getting ready. He heard his phone ring twice while in the bathroom. It rang again while he was getting dressed. Mycroft. He pressed the answer button and then hung up a second later. Moments later, there was knocking on the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed his phone and wallet before opening the door and walking with Mycroft to the elevator. The car ride to the hospital was dull and quiet. More phone-button clicking from Mycroft. After the 34th click, he frowned and pushed the phone into his pocket. Sherlock refused to try to figure out what he read.  
When they finally got out of the terrible New York traffic and arrived at the children’s hospital, an attendant sent them to a waiting room outside of the ICU. That meant family only. A woman with thin black hair pulled into a high pony-tail and light pink scrubs smiled and brought them in after ensuring that they had properly sanitized themselves.

Sherlock flinched when they first walked in. The feeling of sick people everywhere around him made him uncomfortable. He kept his eyes forward and followed the nurse to the last bed. The rooms were made up of the back wall, full walls dividing each one and a large curtain as a door.  
“The first thing she asked for this morning was the window spot," the woman chuckled. “We moved her over here after Doctor Mathers checked on her."  
Mycroft gave her his trademark tight, polite smile and she pulled the curtains open. The girl on the bed looked tired and pale. She was conscious but her eyes were out of focus and her head was looking slowly around in different directions. Finally, she turned her head to look at them and her eyes lit up a bit. “Dad," she whispered from behind the mask that was feeding her oxygen and took a deep breath.

“Elizabeth," the nurse said kindly, “your dad and uncle are here to see you. I’m going to put the nubs in so it’s easier for you to talk, okay?" She nodded and the nurse removed the mask and replaced it with little nubbins in her slightly upturned nose.

“Dad, Mum said that you would not come," she said quietly. Sherlock noticed his brother’s chest constricted a bit before walking over and holding her hand. She smiled and squeezed it. “I knew she was lying."

“Elizabeth, I will always be here. Don’t you worry." He swallowed and turned to the nurse, who was still standing on the other side of the bed.

“We have some test results in, Mister Holmes," she said. “if you would like to look at them."

Mycroft nodded and squeezed Elizabeth’s hand one more time before following the nurse out of the ICU, leaving Sherlock alone with her.

“Hello, are you Sherlock?" Sherlock looked at her and nodded. She pointed to the chair beside her and he sat. “Dad told me about you in some of his phone calls. He said you are a detective. And a smart-ass."

“Are those his words?" Sherlock pondered.

“Not exactly, but my mum’s not here, so I can swear. Not that I would get in trouble. Dying people don’t get in trouble."

Her matter-of-fact tone stung. She seemed so sure that she was going to die. Her voice was strong and determined. Sherlock could tell that she had already assessed her own condition and believed that it was fatal. “Don’t be silly, you’re not dying. You’re just sick."

Elizabeth’s face became serious. “You may be a genius, but I’m no idiot. I’m just coming to terms, that’s all. If I’m going to die here, I’m going to have to accept it." She took a deep breath and laid her head back for a moment. “My head hurts so much," she whispered. “It never stops hurting. I can feel it pushing the drugs away. It’s like it doesn’t want to get better."

He shifted in his chair. He had no idea what to tell her. He did not know how to comfort her. Sherlock reached out his hand and placed it carefully on the edge of his niece’s bed. She looked down at it and, after a moment, placed her fingers on his.

They sat there for a long time. Elizabeth did not try to make conversation, for which Sherlock was grateful. Neither of them spoke for a very long time. She was sweet, but not in an annoying way. He could see that she was probably spoiled by her parents, but had not become a brat because of it. She was quite enjoyable company. Sherlock hoped that it was not just sedatives that were making her like this.

Finally, she spoke. “If I do get better, I want to go back to London."

“Back?"

“Yes, I lived there for a few years when I was little. I don’t remember much, but I remember that it was beautiful and I loved it."  
“Well I’m sure your father will arrange something for you when you get better."

“If I get better," Elizabeth insisted with a tilt of her head.

“When," Sherlock said with a small smile.

She giggled a bit. The smile froze on her face for a moment and her eyes drifted out of focus. He felt her hand tapping his, shaking against his skin. Sherlock looked back at her face to see that the smile had dropped and her whole body was shaking.

Sherlock jumped for the button over her bed. He pressed it multiple times and sped to look down the hall. Two nurses were already on their way. The arrived and pushed him back, telling him to go out into the waiting room before shutting the curtain in his face. “When you get better," Sherlock whispered and went to find Mycroft and quickly as possible.

They were not allowed back into the ICU. Elizabeth’s mother arrived and promptly started crying after the nurse in pink explained what happened. They brought her for lunch in the hospital cafeteria and Mycroft introduced Sherlock. Her name was Anne. Sherlock told her that Elizabeth wanted to go back to England, which sent her back into a fit of tears while Mycroft held her shoulder and glared at his brother.

The three of them sat outside the ICU for three hours while Sherlock read out every fact he could observe about every person who passed by until Mycroft told him that it was time to leave. He kissed Elizabeth’s mother on the cheek and they walked outside to wait for the car to arrive.

*****

Sherlock’s plane was scheduled to leave at seven at night. That meant that the two of them would be going to the hospital, then the hotel, then the airport. The nurse told them that they were permitted to see Elizabeth again today. She was just getting out of sedation and she was hooked up to a machine that controlled her breathing.

The day went slowly. She hardly said a word to her parents or to her uncle, not that they expected her to. The only time she talked in full sentences was when her parents left the room to speak to her doctor and Sherlock was left alone with her again.

Sherlock sat beside her and placed his hand in the same spot, not expecting her to notice. But she did notice, and she reached out and placed her fingers on his hand. “Are you disappointed now that you have met me?" he asked.

She shook her head.

“No? All right, because I’m going to try to impress you now." He looked across the room to see that a nurse was cleaning up the bed across from Elizabeth. “See that woman?" She nodded. “She has three cats." Elizabeth’s eyebrows knit together. “How can I tell? She has scratches on her arm that are small and random, but come in groups of three or four parallel lines. Little scratches from cats."

She looked across the room and smiled. “That’s cool," she said softly. “Is that why you are a genius?"

“Not just that. I do that on a much larger scale and on a regular basis. I’m a consulting detective. The only one."  
“Did you make that up?"

 

“Of course, that’s what makes me the only one."

“The only one," mumbled to herself. “Like a superhero."

“Yes, I suppose a bit like a superhero. I just get a bit less credit."

She laughed a little and turned her head more to look at him. “Are you leaving tomorrow?"

“Yes."

“Then I’ll see you the next time I’m in London, Superhero Holmes."

“Yes, you will."

“Good," she whispered and leaned her head back. “I’ll see you then, Uncle Sherlock." Elizabeth drifted to sleep.

*****

Sherlock tried to sleep on the plane home, but found that he could not. Mycroft was staying behind for a while and would update him on her condition. John met him at the airport and they took a cab back to the flat. He did not pry into the details of Sherlock's trip.

Two days after arriving home, Mycroft texted his brother to tell him that Elizabeth was in critical condition. Three seizures within three days, and the anti-inflammatory medicine was not working.

Three days after arriving home, Mycroft called his brother to tell him that he was coming back to London in three days for a funeral. Elizabeth had apparently asked him to bring her back to London no matter what happened.

Sherlock swallowed and turned away from the crime scene he was standing in front of. He listened to Mycroft explain, but heard nothing.

“I will notify you of a date and time," Mycroft said. Sherlock heard him take in a sharp breath. He hung up the phone on his brother as quickly as possible, not at all ready for what came next. Sherlock felt like he was betraying Mycroft. He could not stand here any longer. He walked out of the house that held the body they were looking at and hailed a cab. The familiar sound of John’s feet came from behind him.

“What just happened?" he said as Sherlock climbed into the cab. He held the door open instead of getting in. “You okay, Sherlock?"

“Elizabeth is making a trip to London," he said quietly. He could not stay there. He could not look at the body. He could not think. He could not be his niece’s superhero. Sherlock could not be a hero.


End file.
